The Faded Photo

by Sarah Price

  He reached for the tissue box and handed it to her, but she waved it away. Certainly offering a Kleenex was part of his normal protocol with newly diagnosed breast cancer patients. Frances didn’t need to ask how many women cried after being told they had cancer. He seemed surprised that she didn’t need a tissue. There would be no tears from her.

  “Mrs. Snyder, I understand that you are going to need some time to digest all of this. Perhaps it’s better if we reschedule our meeting until your husband can—”

  Frances interrupted him with a soft one-word response: “No.” The last thing she wanted was to include Nicholas in any of these preliminary discussions. To begin with, he’d want to know why she hadn’t told him the truth about the phone call on Wednesday morning. If she had to explain the delay, she might as well find out more about the treatment first. Then there was the issue with the acquisition of the Chicago company. He had trips coming up and meetings. Always the meetings. If she could just shield him from having to reschedule those, at least for a short while. And, of course, the real reason was something she didn’t want to share with Dr. Graham. Not now. Probably not ever.

  “No, Dr. Graham,” she repeated in that calm, composed voice. “You can talk to me about the options.”

  Dr. Graham’s eyes narrowed, and for the first time, he glanced down at the manila folder that contained her paperwork. Frances wondered how thick it would become by the end of this ordeal. For now, it contained only a few documents, the first one filled out in her own handwriting. It was the document that contained her insurance information, health history, and emergency contact information.

  “I’m sorry.” His eyes scanned the paper as if searching for something. “I thought you had indicated you were married.”

  “I am.”

  Dr. Graham looked at her again, this time with a look of confusion on his face. “Then I don’t understand. Shouldn’t your husband be part of the decision-making process?”

  “No.”

  One word. No explanation. She had none to give, not that he would understand anyway.

  “No? Just no?”

  When she didn’t respond, the doctor gave her another questioning look.

  Frances shook her head. “Not yet. Not until I know more. There’s no point in getting everyone all topsy-turvy until we have all the facts.”

  He set down her file on the counter and crossed his arms in front of his chest. Leveling his gaze at her, he studied her face for a long moment. “Frances, I don’t think you understand. This will go fast. Very fast. There will be breast MRIs, CT scans, and probably a PET scan, too. We’ll need these tests in order to determine a treatment plan.”

  She knew all this from her online research.

  “You are also going to need some moral support,” he continued. “And it’s always better to have a second set of ears to hear what we are telling you. Sometimes emotions can get in the way of decision-making . . .”

  “I can assure you that won’t happen.” But, even as she said that, her mind was whirling with a hundred different thoughts. Cancer. How could she possibly fit cancer into her busy life? How could she juggle everything if she had to face a life-threatening illness? And the most important question: How could her marriage possibly survive something as awful as breast cancer?

  But then her conversation with Charlotte flickered into her mind.

  “I do have moral support,” she heard herself say. “At least enough until there is a plan.”

  “I really think that it’s best . . .”

  But Frances didn’t acquiesce.

  There was nothing wrong with her simply going through those tests and waiting until the doctor knew more about her treatment program, she reasoned. Why upset the children just yet? Why get Nicholas involved, especially when he was so busy right now, until she had more information about her treatment? She needed the complete picture before she told Nicholas, and only then would they tell the children, together.

  She remembered far too well how people tended to treat cancer patients from her own experience. Her childhood neighbor, the woman at church, even the woman at Nicholas’s work. It became all about everyone else, people lobbying to start food chains and help with childcare, all the while gossiping behind the patient’s back, speculating about her survival rates. Even her own mother had taught her that cancer patients were to be pitied, and that was something Frances couldn’t fathom.

  “What’s best, Dr. Graham, is that we figure out the strongest course of treatment and discuss all the options available to me,” she said. “The least invasive preferably. Then I will discuss it with my family.”

  He shook his head and glanced down at his notes. Clearly, he was not happy with the way things were going. Frances realized that he probably hadn’t encountered such a reaction from his hundreds of other cancer patients. But he really had no choice at this point. She was his patient, and she hadn’t signed a HIPAA waiver. Legally, he could not contact her husband nor could he discuss anything with him. For now, this would remain a discussion between Frances and Dr. Graham. No third parties would be involved unless it was a specialist offering medical treatment.

  And, for now, she intended for it to remain so, at least until she decided differently.

  CHAPTER 5

  “And then Betsy started crying at the lunch table!” Carrie shoved a forkful of pasta into her already full mouth. “Can you believe it? Crying!” She chewed for a few seconds before shaking her head and adding, “I can’t believe you used to make me play with her!”

  “I can’t believe anyone names their kid Betsy!” Andy chimed in with an unkind laugh. “What kind of name is that, anyway? It sounds like an old lady’s name!”

  Frances stood on one side of the counter, her head pounding and her nerves just about shot as she watched her two children eating their dinner. They’d been home for less than an hour, and already she was counting down the minutes until she could retire to her bedroom for some peace and quiet.

  “I don’t think it’s nice to laugh at someone who cried,” she heard herself say.

  “What?” Carrie dropped her fork onto her plate, which sounded like nails on a chalkboard to Frances. “Are you kidding me? She’s the silliest creature in the world! She cries all the time, Mom. She’s in eighth grade for crying out loud! Eighth grade!”

  Trying to maintain her composure, Frances looked at her daughter. “You don’t know what’s going on in her life, Carrie. Maybe you could be a little more compassionate.”

  With a roll of her eyes, Carrie showed what she thought of her mother’s comments. “You just don’t get it, Mom. She’s a geek. A total nothing. A big crybaby. And you wanted me to be friends with her?” Then she shuddered in a dramatic way, as if the thought of them being friends was beyond her comprehension.

  “Yeah, and you used to have a crush on Johnny Farmer! I’d be more embarrassed about that!” Andy said, then laughed as Carrie punched him in the arm. When he lashed back at her, Carrie jumped back and let out a screech, knocking over her water glass, which shattered on the tile floor.

  The sound of the glass hitting the floor shot through Frances’s head like an exploding cannonball.

  “Could the both of you knock it off?” Putting her hands up to the side of her head, she squeezed her fingers hard against her temples. The constant noise, persistent bickering, and inconsiderate self-focus were more than she could handle tonight.

  For a brief moment the kitchen fell silent. Andy gave his sister a look of disgust before getting up to retrieve the broom and dustpan from the pantry. Frances moved her hands and covered her face, not caring that her children were staring at her. She could imagine that they were probably wondering why their mother would lash out over something as simple as a petty argument for once. After all, there were so many other times that she hadn’t reacted that were far more disruptive than the small squabble she’d just witnessed.

  “Jeez, Mom,” Carrie finally said in a softer voice. “Take a chill pill. Andy w
ill clean up the mess.”

  Frances dropped her hands, completely depleted. She had not an ounce of energy left to deal with her children. Not tonight. Her eyes drifted to the digital clock on the microwave. Seven forty-five. She grabbed her cell phone from the counter and began scrolling through her e-mails. Nothing new. Voice mail? Empty. But there was one text message. She opened it, and her heart began to pound as she read the message:

  Home late. Don’t wait up. N.

  She took a deep breath, hoping to calm her nerves. But she knew it was useless. They were on fire, and her entire body felt as if ten thousand needles were piercing her skin.

  “I have to go out,” she mumbled.

  Andy looked up from the sweeping. “We’re sorry, Momma.” She cringed. “We didn’t mean to upset you, did we, Carrie?” he said, giving his sister a death stare.

  Without giving further explanation, Frances headed toward the door that led to the garage. “Make certain you clean up properly. If one of the dogs steps on a shard of glass, they could get really hurt.” She hurried into the garage and pressed the garage door opener. The sound of it opening almost sent her over the edge.

  For some time she sat inside the car, both hands set firmly on the steering wheel. She didn’t know where to go; she just knew that she had to get out of there. She wasn’t a person who visited bars, especially by herself, and currently she had no patience to sit through a movie. All that she knew was she couldn’t sit in that house for one more minute. Not. One.

  The problem wasn’t necessarily the children. No, Frances was well aware that they were just one of the symptoms of the real problem. Most of the time, she blamed herself. It was the role she’d adopted to survive the pain of knowing that something was terribly wrong in her life. And it wasn’t just breast cancer. The pain had been present long before her diagnosis.

  As her eyes began to flood with tears, she tried to jam her keys into the ignition. On the third try, she managed to make a connection. She wiped at her eyes with the palm of her hand, then shifted the gear into reverse and pulled out of the garage. Not caring that it was dark and raining, or that she’d left her children home alone, she backed down the driveway. The exterior of the house was dark, and the empty trash cans were upended, with the lids strewn about the front lawn. How many times had she asked one of the children to bring the empty cans from the curb to the garage? And how many times had she asked Nicholas to fix the timers on the outdoor lights? Come to think of it, how many times had she asked Nicholas to fix anything? His answer was always one of two things: he’d fix it later, or he’d hire someone to do it. Neither ever happened.

  Frances drove down her winding street toward Interstate 287 and noticed that all of her neighbors’ homes looked welcoming and well tended. The word prideful came to mind as she gazed at their custom in-ground lighting casting perfectly orchestrated shadows over their brick or stone exteriors. A few had spotlights aimed at their front doors, where holiday wreaths with perfectly placed bows would soon be hanging. No doubt, there would be tiny white lights—not colored ones, which most of the neighborhood frowned upon and considered classless—covering the perfectly shaped bushes, too. Fake candles would be placed on the windowsills, and almost every house would have a lit Christmas tree, visible through one of the many large picture windows that faced the street.

  Frances could only hope that this year she could convince Andy and Carrie to help her set up the Christmas tree and, if she was really lucky, string some lights on the boxwoods that lined their front walk.

  She was tired of courting that horrid feeling of inferiority, especially since it didn’t travel alone. Instead, it seemed to drag along its preferred companion: self-inflicted guilt. After all, whenever she complained, she learned firsthand from Nicholas who was to blame for their family’s social inadequacies. Although he never came right out and said the words, she could tell by his attitude that he felt she could do more. Everyone always wanted more from Frances; even Frances wanted more from herself. Gritting her teeth, she knew she had to tell him. And she couldn’t wait for him to come home and tell her, yet again, that he was tired and they could talk in the morning. She was well aware that the morning conversation would never come.

  Her car seemed to take on a life of its own, driving itself along the highway, heading in the direction of I-280 East. While she hated driving, especially at night, she had to face the truth. There would be no more burying her head in the sand about Nicholas’s late nights, weekend commitments, and lack of interest when it came to anything that had to do with her.

  It was time to face the truth. And time to tell him the truth.

  When she pulled into the parking lot, it was almost nine o’clock. Lost in her thoughts, she’d missed the exit and had to make a U-turn to backtrack. The last thing she wanted was to take the wrong exit. Despite the mayor’s claims that he was cleaning up the city, Newark still remained a scary place at night, and she didn’t want to get lost.

  When Frances pulled up to the building, she could see that there were a lot of lights on for that time of night. She’d been to her husband’s office only a handful of times, but she remembered well enough where his reserved parking spot was located and knew that his office was on the fifteenth floor, just one floor beneath the top executives.

  Despite the many lit floors, the underground parking garage was mostly empty. She drove down two levels and looked for spot number 324. Confident that the employee assigned to number 325 wasn’t going to show up anytime soon, she pulled in next to Nicholas’s black Audi.

  Her hands shook as she put her car keys into her purse and headed toward the door. She knew that security would have to buzz her in, so she pulled out her wallet to have her ID ready. Still, she had a surreal feeling when she crossed the empty parking lot and reached for the buzzer, glancing up at the camera so the security guard could clearly see her face.

  “May I help you?”

  “Frances Snyder, visiting my husband, Nicholas, on the fifteenth floor,” she answered, surprised that her voice remained calm and steady. That certainly wasn’t how she felt.

  A buzz and a clicking noise alerted her that the door had been unlocked. She opened it and passed through. The elevator door opened, and a uniformed man stepped outside, using his hand to keep the doors from shutting so she could enter.

  “Good evening, Mrs. Snyder,” he said, stepping back inside to accompany her up to the fifteenth floor. Using a key, he unlocked the panel of buttons and then pressed the button for her husband’s floor. “Still raining out there?”

  She nodded her head, but remained silent, not wanting to engage in conversation.

  “Almost makes me wish it was colder,” he continued, staring up at the panel of lights above the door. “I’d take snow over rain any day.”

  Frances made a noise of acknowledgment, which he thankfully seemed to take as a hint to stop the small talk. When the doors opened, he stepped aside, waiting for her to exit before escorting her down the long corridor toward the back offices.

  Her hands began to shake, so she put them in her coat pockets, not wanting the guard to see that she was nervous. She wished the security guard would let her walk the rest of the way unaccompanied. The last thing she wanted was for a stranger to bear witness to whatever she might find behind the closed door of her husband’s office. On the other hand, maybe it was better this way. The scene might be less dramatic when she walked in on Nicholas and whoever was with him.

  But his office door was closed. And locked.

  “No light on. You said he was expecting you?” the security guard questioned.

  She nodded, even though she didn’t remember having said any such thing.

  “Maybe the conference room, then?” The guard didn’t wait for her answer. Instead, he led her down another hallway and toward a room that, indeed, had light coming from underneath the door.

  What, exactly, was she doing here? What would she say when she confronted him? How would he react to being
spied on by his wife? Caught doing whatever it was that he did on all those late nights when he told her he was working late?

  The security guard didn’t seem concerned as he reached out for the doorknob and turned it, slowly pushing it open and stepping aside.

  Frances took a deep breath and brushed past him into the room.

  The conference room was lit up, the table littered with papers and files. Her eyes swept the room, which appeared empty, despite two cups of coffee and a tray of food that littered the mahogany conference table. There was another door at the back of the room that was slightly ajar. From the small opening, she could hear voices. It felt as if someone else were directing her, as if she were a puppet on strings and an invisible hand were guiding her toward that room.

  As she neared it, the voices grew louder, which made her stop.

  Two men appeared in the doorway, so deep in conversation they didn’t notice her standing there for a few moments. But when they did, surprise registered on their faces. Behind them, a third man emerged. He carried a round plate with two sandwich halves on it. When Nicholas caught sight of Frances, his initial reaction was confusion, but almost as quickly it turned to irritation.

  “Frances? What are you doing here?”

  For a moment she couldn’t respond. While she hadn’t expected to find Nicholas alone, she hadn’t expected to find him with two other businessmen, either. She tried to collect her thoughts, to wrap her head around the scene before her, which was so different than what she’d anticipated.

  Nicholas set down his plate and crossed the room. He took her arm and quickly led her back to the hallway.

  “Are you checking up on me?” he asked, even though they both knew the answer. “What are you thinking?” He glanced over his shoulder.

  “I . . .” She didn’t know how to respond. What was she thinking? “I . . . I was concerned,” she finally said.